


walk on

by notmadderred



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 11:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19108336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmadderred/pseuds/notmadderred
Summary: Grif positioned his gun in front of him, ready -- only a ridge between him and--“Wait, I think I just heard something!”He crossed over.Simmons was kneeling, hands behind his exposed, bleeding head.There were four mercs.Somehow,somehow, he killed three of them before they could react.The fourth cursed and threw a knife.Simmons screamed, scrambling to his feetSomething hit Grif.Grif stumbled back a step, blinking.The pain hit him then, and he gasped.





	walk on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RiaTheDreamer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY IT ONLY TOOK ME LIKE A YEAR TO WRITE THIS BUT I'D LIKE TO CLAIM THAT MY PUBLISHING DAY HALF MAKES UP FOR THAT (gawd, sorry)

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Johnson!” he yelled, “I said _get back!_ ”

Gunfire, shouts.

Grif cursed, retreating back behind the rock as more shots came his way. “Johnson! Where the fuck are you?”

There was static on the comms. No response from Johnson. Roman was dead.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

His heart hammered in his chest, and he took a moment to close his eyes, to count to five.

Then he started running, sprinting across the clearing as bullets rang out around him until he got to the next closest cover and stopped. 

His breaths were coming out heavy, more from the muted panic than the exertion. He looked around. Johnson had come this way; Johnson was here somewhere and he--

A head popped up forty yards away.

Relief flushed through Grif’s body so fast he almost collapsed.

“Captain!” Johnson shouted. “My comms are--”

“Get down!” Grif yelled back.

“Captain, Simmons’ group is-- urgh!”

Grif blinked.

Watched in slow motion as Johnson’s body spasmed once, sharp, sudden… and dropped.

Johnson was dead before he hit the floor.

The relief turned to ice.

Grif couldn’t move.

He was staring as Johnson, who’d volunteered for this, who only volunteered because this was supposed to be a simple supply run, because this was going to be his first run _ever_ , because he’d been _scared_ , because he was only sixteen years old.

Grif was numb.

Johnson was dead.

A sick feeling lodged in his stomach.

The bullets continued flying.

“God- _fucking_ -dammit!” he yelled, slamming a fist into the stone. He couldn’t even feel that through his power armor, couldn’t feel a fucking thing.

Johnson was dead.

And he still had a fucking job to do.

That was the unfairness of the world, wasn’t it? How things always continued on regardless of pain or sacrifice? The insensitivity of creation in the face of a universe destroyed, a universe with a fucking name that ended in Johnson?

He swallowed. Closed his eyes again. Counted to five again.

Then he switched channels. “Simmons? Maroon team? Anyone there?”

_“We’re pinned down!”_ was the immediate response. It was one of Simmons’ privates. _“We need backup, but communication to Base has been shut down!”_

Grif swallowed. Spared one last look at Johnson. “I’ll be there.”

_“Captain, with all due respect, you only have three members on your--”_

“One,” he snapped. “And I’ll be there.”

There was silence. Then, _“Copy that. Simmons’ comms are down, but he says not to do anything stupid.”_

Air returned to him. He hadn’t even realized how concerned he’d been for Simmons. “Tell him to go screw himself.”

The Maroon Team was north of him by less than half a mile. Their team started with five, and Grif wasn’t about to ask how many were left given that he already knew they were pinned.

No more gunfire. 

They could be waiting, or they could have moved on after having not heard any returning fire for a while.

Maybe they were moving north.

He hoped not.

The only consolation he had was that Felix and Locus weren’t the ones leading this attack. If they had, _everyone_ would be dead.

Not just Johnson.

Not just Roman.

He stepped cautiously from cover, glancing around, practically waiting for someone to snipe his stupid ass.

Nothing.

It didn't offer him any consolation.

Grif checked his gun and began trekking north.

 

It wasn’t far.

It wasn’t far but it felt like forever.

He wasn’t walking -- walking was too slow. Walking meant they’d die. He had to move faster than that, laziness be damned.

They’d stopped responding.

So he had to run.

He had to skirt from one cover to the next in case there were mercs, but it wasn’t as careful as he should’ve been.

It didn't matter. They weren’t looking for him.

He couldn’t breathe as he got closer.

“How much is a captain worth?” someone was asking. “Felix said they were supposed to be important or whatever. This guy’s from the Reds and Blues, right?”

“Jim, he’s right fucking there. Just ask him.”

“Fuck off,” Simmons snapped. Simmons was okay. For now. He was alive.

“We can bring him back. Felix would like that.”

“Do you have a boner for Felix or something?” asked the other guy. 

“Hey, I’m just trying to be strategic! Hey, maroon-guy -- is anyone else coming? You got backup?”

“... No.” Simmons said it so quietly, Grif could barely hear him. But he was almost there. It sounded like it was just the two guys -- Maroon Team must have made the most with--

Oh, God. They’d killed everyone but Simmons, hadn’t they?

Fucking--

Grif positioned his gun in front of him, ready -- only a ridge between him and--

“Wait, I think I just heard something!”

He crossed over.

Simmons was kneeling, hands behind his exposed, bleeding head.

There were four mercs.

Somehow, _somehow_ , he killed three of them before they could react.

The fourth cursed and threw a knife.

Simmons screamed, scrambling to his feet

Something hit Grif.

Grif stumbled back a step, blinking.

The pain hit him then, and he gasped.

It occurred in that same moment that gasping would be a bad idea when one has a knife lodged in his neck.

In an act of desperation, he pulled it out (he could hear Dr. Grey and Wash and Carolina and anyone with half a brain reprimanding him for that one) and took a half step toward Simmons.

Simmons, who was being tackled by the remaining merc.

Grif tried to yell, tried to get the merc’s attention but only managed dry air. Did that mean he was panicking? Oh, fuck, why couldn’t he--

He needed to save Simmons.

The merc dealt a particularly nasty blow to Simmons’ head, and he crumpled.

Grif pulled the trigger one last time, and that merc fell as well.

Grif careened to the side then, gasping, clutching at his throat.

Oh, shit. _Oh, shit_ he needed

He dropped to the floor, pulling off his helmet and taking biofoam from his pocket to apply it as quickly as possible.

Its effects were immediate, numbing some of the pain and likely helping to staunch the bleeding. 

He blinked some of the spots from his eyes, trying to push past the aching feeling, gritting his teeth.

_Goddammit just_

He took a deep breath, ignoring the spikes it sent into his chest.

Grif stood up, looked over to Simmons.

Simmons, whose head was currently bleeding as he lay on the ground, unconscious.

_Simmons!_ he tried to yell. 

The result was the same as before, the same hot exhale.

He frowned, forced his body forward, closer to Simmons.

He needed to make sure he was alive, needed to see that was--

_Simmons,_ he attempted.

Nothing.

No. No no no. That wasn’t right. That couldn’t possibly be… 

He put a hand against his neck, which was still warm and slick from blood and biofoam.

He couldn’t… 

It was fine. He was fine. The biofoam would take care of that. It was totally okay. He didn't have time to worry about himself, to fuss over the numbing pain and blood loss and potential mutism and

Grif stumbled to Simmons, collapsing on the ground next to him. Every bone in his body was exhausted.

He ignored the bodies. Had to ignore the bodies. Had to ignore the fact that he killed those mercs, the fact that the rest of the Maroon Team was lying dead around him, the fact that Johnson and Roman were dead behind him.

_Simmons, buddy,_ he was mouthing, breathing as he approached him. 

_Please be okay. Please. Pleaseplease_

He turned Simmons over.

His eyes were closed, mouth slightly ajar. The blood was on his face, clotting near his temple. 

_Please be okay._

With a shaking hand, Grif checked for a pulse.

There.

It was weak, but it was there.

Grif wanted to cry in his relief.

He ducked his face into Simmons’ neck, gritting his teeth, trying to hold back the tears.

It was fine. Simmons… was alive. For now.

He needed to pull it together.

He was the one who was always cool and collected. That couldn’t change now.

Grif pulled back.

They needed to get somewhere safe. He doubted it would be good when those mercs failed to return and report back.

Okay. Okay. He could do this. 

He shook Simmons. ‘Wake up, nerd,’ he tried to say. It wasn’t working. Fuck. He had to stop trying. The biofoam just needed time to heal… whatever it was that was leaving him unable to talk. He shook Simmons again, harder this time.

Nothing.

Simmons was a notoriously light sleeper, so this was concerning. Not that Grif was completely concerned. He was just kind of concerned.

He gave Simmons one last shove.

A soft groan escaped his lips, but he otherwise showed no sign of waking.

Fuck. _Fuck._

Grif quickly began searching his pockets for any remaining biofoam. Shit. He hadn’t packed the regulated amount. In hindsight, that was a stupid decision.

One the other hand…

He quickly started pawing at Simmons’ pockets, quickly finding a stash. Bingo. 

He pulled it out, quickly putting as much as possible in the spots that looked particularly bad. His red hair had dark streaks of crimson matted about, which was now combined the biofoam to make for an absolute mess. Simmons probably also needed stitches, but Grif’s hands were already shaking so much… at this point, he’d probably do more harm than good. Typical.

He examined his handiwork. It was messy at best, but the biofoam worked on its own. He didn't need to be a genius to use it.

But they still needed to get out of here.

And Simmons still wasn’t awake.

Son of a bitch. He was going to have to carry Simmons, wasn’t he?

Grif examined Simmons’ unconscious form. The cybernetic limbs made him heavy enough, and combine that with both of their power armor… 

Dammit. In this state, he wouldn’t get five feet with him. They’d need to go without power armor.

He started by taking off his own, wanting to spit out curses as he went when it took too long. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been with Simmons, but it already felt like too long and even though he didn't get worried, he was kind of worried.

This fucking sucked.

He started working at Simmons, who was, of course, useless. Not to mention, he felt awkward taking off someone else’s armor. Sure, he had civvies underneath, but still! It wasn’t because this was _Simmons_. Nope. Not at all.

He yanked off one of the legs, stumbling back onto his ass as a result. He sighed. 

“Last signal came from this way,” said a voice, and Grif momentarily froze. No, that was too fast. Way too fast.

He scrambled back to his feet, going through the rest of Simmons’ armor as quickly as possible and wanting to quietly curse the whole time but he couldn’t and fuck fuck _fuck_.

“Some dead Maroon guys back here. Did our boys intercept an enemy supply run?”

He finally pulled off the last shoulder plate. Simmons looked paler than usual, and Grif did his best not to fret.

“That’d be my guess. Talk about luck.”

Grif started to heave Simmons over his shoulder, gasping as he hit a sore spot he hadn’t noticed.

“I heard chatter about a captain on the radio. Do you think that means a larger team is nearby?”

“Doubtful. Those captains are on, like, every mission. If they managed to kill one though, that’d be pretty fuckin’ great.”

Grif was silently wheezing as he began limping toward cover. Simmons’ butt was next to his face and his head was draped against his back. Grif gripped Simmons’ legs tighter. There probably was a better way to go about this, but he didn't have time. He needed to move.

It hurt to breathe, especially now that Simmons’ weight was pressed on top of him. He stationed himself behind a rock, trying to silence his wheezes as much as possible and praying that Simmons wouldn’t make a sound.

“The hell happened here? This looks like those Reds’ armor.”

“Oh, damn.” There was a click. “The mercs are dead. We have evidence that some of the Reds were in the area… Two of the captains’ power armor were shed here. We’re not sure why but-- … Yes. I’m assuming they’ve retreated, but we’re not sure if either of them was wounded. Would you like us to return with the armor? We can pretend we have them captive or… yeah. We’ll load them on the jeep. Arnie’ll bring it here. Do you want us to look for the captains?... Yeah, we’ll start looking a bit further north… Yup. We’ll bring these guys in. I’m pretty sure it’s Grif and Simmons, but Felix would know better… We will.”

Grif’s heart was hammering out of his chest. His brain felt light, useless. There was nothing he could do. He just had to hope they moved on quickly, that… Arnie, or whoever, didn't spot him when he came down with the jeep.

“God, this job fucking sucks.” There was the sound of shifting, closer to him. “See if you can find any footprints or whatever that’ll tell us where they went.”

“Do I look like a fucking tracker to you?”

“Just shut up and loo--”

_HOONNNKKK!_

“Jesus Chr--!” said one of the men as Grif jumped in surprise. He was still holding Simmons, too afraid that putting him down would be too loud. “What the fuck, Arnie! You don’t gotta sneak up on us like that!”

“I’m in a fucking Jeep. How the hell didn't you--”

“Just shut up and help us load this armor. Get what supplies you can from the dead, and then we’re off north.”

He was too scared to let that calm him. 

“Should we raid the bodies of those Gold guys back?”

Grif bristled, tried not to let Johnson’s face flash behind his eyelids.

“Not worth it. Let’s just get a move on. They couldn’t have gone far.”

And just like that, Grif got to hear the tell-tale sound of the Jeep driving away.

‘We’re safe for now,’ he tried to say. Couldn’t say. Biofoam wasn’t done working its magic, he supposed. Simmons wouldn’t hear him anyway.

He shifted the man on his shoulder. 

Simmons had a radio attached to his hip, probably in case his helmet comm broke. Grif was almost thankful, except for the fact that he couldn’t call Base.

Which meant he had to start walking and hope for the best.

Hope that he didn't end up like Johnson, like Roman, like those Maroon soldiers the mercs just pilfered.

Grif grit his teeth and started walking.

 

\----

 

He spotted a Fed vehicle only a couple hours later. They were driving in the direction Grif and Simmons were coming from, likely to check on what happened.

Grif could hear them from where he stood. 

Thank God. He could…

He dropped Simmons carefully and tried to shout, to get them to turn his way.

Nothing. _Nothing._

They were still driving, not having spotted the captains.

Grif clutched at his throat. ‘Hey!’ he tried again.

Nothing but air.

They were getting further away. Grif was useless. He couldn’t even… 

Dammit dammit dammit.

He looked around, eventually spotting a rock nearby. As quickly as he could, he grabbed it and threw it at the Feds.

It didn't land anywhere near them.

They drove away.

‘No.’ 

They needed help, and Grif had been useless. _Simmons_ needed help, and Grif… 

 

After that, he didn't see anyone for over a day.

A full day Simmons had been unconscious, and Grif had been walking, exhausted.

He wanted to fill the silence, but every time he spoke, no words came out. 

It was infuriating.

Every step south took ages. Every breath hurt. He was fucking hungry and only had one MRE bar left, but he was waiting for Simmons. A rarity. A necessity. He didn't ask himself if he’d do the same for anyone else: that didn't matter.

Simmons was still alive. Simmons did drink some of the water Grif forced down his throat, so that was a plus.

Night had come and gone, but he hadn’t stopped walking, hadn’t stopped heading to the southern base except to check on Simmons.

They were going to die. This was going to be terrible. 

“Hey!”

Grif stumbled, almost dropping Simmons. No. No, he had to keep going. It was fine _they were fine._ He was going to get Simmons to help.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!”

Oh, fuck.

Grif blinked and looked up.

It was a jeep.

He felt nauseous but

Oh, thank fuck. That was News armor.

“State your name and allegiance.” He was pointing a gun at Grif.

Grif raised his free hand in surrender. He couldn’t speak. The biofoam wasn’t finished yet. It wasn’t…

“I said, state your name and allegiance.”

He couldn’t.

Grif swallowed, the action painful, his throat sore.

It occurred to him that he’d never stopped shaking.

Fuck. Fuck. He was fine.

Grif dropped to his knees -- _collapsed_ to his knees -- and let Simmons down as gently as he could, raising his other hand immediately after.

The man pointing the gun at him seemed to hesitate before eventually hopping out to get a closer look. His helmet seemed to angle down slightly, catching Grif’s neck. “Can’t talk?”

Grif nodded.

It wasn’t surprising they didn't recognize him. Very few people had actually seen them out of armor given that everyone was on high alert all the time. But if he could fucking talk, they may have been able to recognize his voice.

“Fucking--” The man shook his head. “Dammit. Look, we can’t exactly trust you. We got word about…” He sniffed, turning away. “Fine. We’re cuffing you guys and letting you on. Is he injured?” he asked, pointing to Simmons.

Fucking duh. Grif nodded.

“All right. Okay. Andrews, get the cuffs! They’re coming with us.”

Another head popped into view. “Yeah? How do we know they’re not mercs who killed Grif-Simmons?”

Grif had several objections to that. One: they weren’t dead. Two: why did they say their names like that?

Instead, he looked up eagerly, snapping his fingers.

“What?” snapped Andrews.

He pointed at himself and Simmons.

“Yeah? What-fucking about you two?”

‘We’re the captains,’ he mouthed. 

“No comprendo, asshole.”

“Andrews,” said the first dangerously. “Look, even if they do turn out to be mercs, we’ll have them in custody. Once the cyborg-dude wakes up, we’ll be able to get information.”

Grif really just wanted to sleep. He didn't care what they did to him at this point, so long as it meant they were heading somewhere safe where Simmons could get the help he needed.

Seconds later, Grif passed out.

 

\----

 

He woke up on a hospital bed.

Grif would hate to admit it, but the first thing he did was panic.

_Simmons!_ he tried to yell, looking around desperately and trying to get up. He sounded like he was wheezing, but that didn't matter right now because Simmons could be in danger because he _fucking fell asleep again_

A firm hand pushed him down. “Captain Grif, calm down. You’re safe. Captain Simmons is safe. You need to take a deep breath.”

He blinked, looking up.

Doctor Grey.

Oh, thank fuck.

He looked around, his eyes clearer this time.

Simmons was in the hospital chair, head lolled back. Part of his head was covered in bandages, leaving his hair sticking up in random directions.

He opened his mouth to talk again, but Grey quickly interrupted him. “You pushed yourself far more than you should have, Captain!” she chirped, tilting her head slightly. “You’re lucky you didn't hurt yourself further!”

Simmons was asleep. Not passed out. He was recovering. He was okay.

Still, Grif didn't like seeing him with his eyes closed, eyebrows pinched together.

He took a deep breath. His throat didn't hurt like before, but something felt… off. He furrowed his brows and reached one hand toward his neck--

Grey’s hand stopped his. “I… wouldn’t,” she said carefully, pointedly. “There’s still injury there, though it’s healing quite well.”

‘What,’ he tried, frowning. He swallowed. ‘What--’

“Your vocal cords have been damaged, Captain Grif.”

He froze.

“I’m afraid the damage is permanent. The placement of the injury and time left mostly untreated -- aside from the biofoam, of course -- has prevented me from being able to put them back in working order.”

That couldn’t be right. He couldn’t… 

Simmons stirred then, eyes opening slowly before he seemed to spot Grif awake. He froze, eyes wide in scarcely hidden panic. Then the panic turned to uncertainty, then to guilt. Simmons was too fucking easy for him to read. “Did you tell him?” he asked, looking to Grey.

She nodded.

Simmons bit down on his lip. Then he stood up, walking to his bedside.

Grif was… mute.

Grif swallowed again, looked from his hands and back up to Simmons. He tried to clear any emotions from his face, tried to swallow down the fear and fucking _anger_. It wasn’t…

“I’m sorry,” Simmons said, and in those two words were more honest than Grif had probably ever heard from him before. Then Simmons grabbed Grif’s hand (the one that really was Grif’s) and squeezed it once. “I… I should’ve stopped him before he hit you. I…”

‘Not your fault, dumbass,’ he wanted to tell him. Instead, he squeezed back.

Simmons gave him a lopsided smile. “Thanks for saving me, anyway. I heard you carried me for miles.”

“Oh, he didn't hear anything,” Grey quipped. 

Simmons didn't seem to notice, instead still looking at Grif.

“I can’t say I expected that from your fat ass.”

Grif’s eyes slid to Grey for a moment. Then he flipped Simmons off.

“Yeah, fuck you too, asshole,” Simmons shot back. He pulled back his hand, and Grif forced himself to not reach out and grab it back again. Simmons crossed his arms. “And, uh, don’t worry.” He looked away, drumming his fingers on his forearm. “We’ll get through this together.”

“Of course you will!” said Grey, and once again Simmons ignored her. “In fact, many people in both your units -- as well as your fellow captains -- have begun to take up sign language! And I already have a modulator design in the works -- it won’t replace your vocal cords, but it will enable you to regain some elements of speech. I’m afraid you won’t have your natural voice again, however.”

So he’d sound like one of those smokers from the 2000s commercials. Fucking great. Ironically, Simmons had been warning him about that ever since they first met and found out Grif actually did smoke on occasion.

Grif wasn’t sure what was worse.

“Hand signals are already a big part of effective communication among troops anyhow, though I’m afraid that if you want to remain a captain, you’ll have to at least attempt to use my technology.”

God, he wanted her to fucking stop.

Simmons furrowed his brows. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Grif shot him an exasperated look.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Grey continued. “Even if you could talk, it isn’t like he’d hear you!”

Fucking _what?_ What the hell did that mean? 

Simmons frowned, bringing one hand up to rub the back of his neck. “Right, you can't… answer. Um. Sorry.”

Tucker burst through the door a second later. “Oh, thank _God_. You're not dead.”

Grif wanted to shoot an insult back at him, to comment on that apparent concern. Instead he settled for a glare.

Tucker winced. “Uh, yeah. That--”

Simmons turned in that moment and promptly yelped, falling onto the bed, his cyborg hand thumping Grif hard enough in the chest to make him wheeze. “T- Tucker!” he squeaked. “How long have you been standing there?”

Grif narrowed his eyes. ‘What the fuck?’ he mouthed.

Tucker rolled his eyes. "Your boyfriend's deaf, dumbass. Figures that you two would get sorta-matching injuries.” 

What?

Simmons collected himself, getting up off the bed and taking the sudden warmth with him.

This was his fault. Everything was his fault.

He clenched his hands into fists.

“Um, wait,” Tucker continued, looking at Grif frantically. “You seem mad. Oh, fuck. Um, Grey’s working on cochlear implants for him? Donut’s excited that they’ll match and--”

Grif shut him down with a look.

Simmons shifted uncomfortably. Then he glanced between Grif and Tucker. Realization dawned on his face. “You told him, didn't you!”

“Um.”

“Fucking--” He put a hand in his hair, only to wince as he clipped the bandages. “Grif, it’s fine. I’m fine. I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you. Besides, I’ve been through tons of weird surgeries!” he continued, voice pitching higher and higher. “This is-- it’s fine. Really! And-- and it’s fine because-- because you-- you’re…” He stopped himself, wringing out his hands. “Uh, nevermind.”

Now Grif wanted to know. 

He wanted to ask, opening his mouth instinctively but… he snapped it back shut and sighed out his nose.

Despite what Simmons said, this was his fault. He was responsible. And now he was going to have to live with the consequences.

“Stop that,” said Simmons, his voice hauty.

Grif narrowed his eyes and jutted out his chin. 

“Blaming yourself!” Simmons yelped, answering the unspoken question. He wrapped his arms around his midsection. “We can do the blame game all we want. It’s as much my fault as it is yours.”

Grey pursed her lips and looked between them. “How about we give them a moment?” she said, her tone pointed at Tucker.

Tucker winced. “Right. Not too long. Everyone wants to check up on them.” He leaned over to get a better view of Grif. “Kiss and make up. You’re both gonna be fine. Stop being dramat-- OW!” he finished, rubbing his side where Grey had just jabbed him. “Fine, fine! I’m out!”

“Off you go,” Grey continued, parading him out. 

The door shut behind her with a soft click.

He briefly wondered how, exactly, she thought this conversation was going to go. Grif couldn’t talk. 

Simmons looked over his shoulder to see that the room had cleared. “Um,” he said.

He hated this. He’d been so convinced he was going to be okay and now…

“I… almost wish it was the other way around,” Simmons said, quirking up one side of his lips into a smirk. “You could carry a conversation with a volleyball if you tried.”

Grif hoped his expression demonstrated exactly how he felt about that statement.

“Yeah, yeah, you know what I mean. I-- er, I didn't mean to compare you to a volleyball. Because you’re not. A volleyball. You’re a human. You just-- uh, sorry.” He collapsed into the nearby plastic chair and scooted it forward. “This is weird.”

No fucking shit.

“You know, I know I’m talking, but… but if someone told me I wasn’t, I’d believe them.”

Grif pointed at Simmons, then mimicked a jabbering mouth with his hand.

Simmons rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

Grif lifted a brow.

“I stand by my words,” Simmons continued.

That actually made Grif smile.

Simmons’ ears turned pink, and he cleared his throat before scooting the chair forward even more. He put his hands on the bed, clasping them together. “Um, I feel like an idiot saying this, but since I can’t hear myself and therefore don’t hear how stupid it is-- I was. Saying earlier…” He dropped his head to look at his hands, and Grif wondered if he should be concerned. Was Simmons concussed, too? “I… I don’t care that I’m deaf because I wouldn’t have been able to hear your voice anyway. I mean, I’ve probably spent half of my life just talking to you and listening to you talk and now that that’s gone, I just… Well, I guess not completely gone since I’ll get implants and you’ll get a modulator that I’m told is pretty good, but I haven’t actually heard it. But it’ll be different, but it’s different for both of us, and if that’s what the cost is, then I don’t care. Because I’m in it with you. So we’ll-- we’ll learn fucking sign language so we can keep talking about fucking nothing for hours even if you can’t talk and I can’t hear you because you’re still here, and I’m still here, and that’s the only thing that matters. So.”

Grif blinked. Huh.

He bit his lower lip, watching as Simmons slowly looked up, face looking caught in the midst of a wince. His eyes met Grif’s.

Simmons suddenly recoiled. “I’m-- sorry.” Red shot up his neck and covered the tips of his ears. “I’ll just--” And he stumbled from the chair.

Grif straightened. ‘Wait,’ he tried to say automatically before silently cursing. Simmons wasn’t looking now, was trying to run out on him.

He lunged forward and grabbed Simmons’ wrist.

Simmons yelped and turned around, eyes widening. “D- don’t make fun of me.”

He sounded more vulnerable than he ever would’ve let himself sound had he known.

Grif wanted to tell him that he wasn’t making fun of him. That those words meant… meant something he wouldn’t know how to express. He wanted to tell him that he cared, and that they _were_ in this together. He wanted to tell him a lot of things that, even if he could speak, he likely wouldn’t end up saying, that Simmons wouldn’t end up hearing.

Fucking hell.

He gave Simmons a soft shake of his head.

Simmons relaxed instantly. 

Grif forced a smile.

This sucked, but… knowing Simmons was going to be with him every step of the way helped. Somehow.

He still wanted to complain endlessly.

Simmons narrowed his eyes. “At least I don’t have to hear you whine.”

How the fuck had he known. How.

Grif stuck out his tongue.

Simmons snorted at him, unimpressed. “Real mature.” Then he put his free hand under his chin, palm inward, before flicking his fingers outward. It looked like an aborted version of “thank you.”

Grif blinked at him.

“That means ‘fuck you’,” he explained.

Grif gave him the middle finger again.

“Yeah, I know. But mine is more eloquent.”

Grif pursed his lips.

Simmons smiled. Then his gaze when back to where Grif was holding him by the wrist. “Um,” he said.

Grif let him go.

Simmons drew that hand in to his chest and started absently rubbing at the area Grif was holding. “A- are you feeling okay?” he asked.

Grif tilted his head.

“L- like hungry!” Simmons squeaked. “And okay to get up and leave! D- Dr. Grey said you’d probably be fine once you woke up, but m- maybe your throat hurts or you’re sore or--”

Normally Grif would’ve interrupted him by this point.

“--or you’re still tired and just want to sleep or--”

Grif grabbed a clipboard off the bedside table and threw it at him.

Simmons ducked it, then popped back up to glare at him.

Grif gestured between the two of them, then pointed at the door.

“Uh, you want to go?”

Grif nodded and started to maneuver himself from the bed.

“Cafeteria?”

He nodded again. He was garbed in the same civvies he must’ve shown up in. There were some sweat stains easily visible, but that wasn’t much of a surprise.

Simmons was also wearing civvies. Grif frowned. They were also the same ones he’d had under the armor, which was weird. Because Simmons was all about cleanliness. 

Wait, how long had Simmons been sitting with him?

They both stood there for a moment.

Simmons flushed as he remembered that he’d be the one breaking the silences from now on. “Uh, right! Let’s--”

Grif sighed, rolled his eyes, then grabbed Simmons’ hand and started pulling him toward the door.

He could work with change, he thought as he kept that hold once they both staggered into the hallway. But if he was going to have to put up with shitty change, he may as well try to make a positive one to balance it out.

So, yeah. He didn't let go.

 

In his defense, Simmons didn't let go either.

**Author's Note:**

> While technically a Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt, I'm actually really wanting to continue this. 
> 
> Goddammit. I just fucking love Grif and Simmons.


End file.
